»The meat man's gone«
In memory of a good friend
»The meat man's gone«
I guess that's what they call: »the silence of the lambs«
Put down your forks
Dry your tears with napkins stained with oily drops
»The meat man's gone«
He was the joy of our mornings
The last memory of our late nights
His smile lit up our sky's…
But now… »the meat man's gone…«
His hands would carve from meat our joy,
Lambs… not »of god« but of devine taste…
Corners of our mouths would spread in smiles
As we licked them in memory… of our meals
But now… »the meat man's gone…«
No more: »Messieurs or madames«
No more whistles to the clock…
No »pardons« or »ein biers«
Only silence
For he »the meat man's gone«
So let us rise our forks
One last time
And dry the tears that run by our oily lips
And remember him…
Couse he might be gone but he stays in our hearts
Forever… That same, smiley
»Meat man«
četrtek, 9. julij 2009
sreda, 8. julij 2009
the flea circus
Welcome 2 the:
»The flea circus«
[for her that brought tears of hope and love]
It's Sunday morning, I'm not going to church today. I'm saving my money for my flea circus ticket.
And there was the begining.
»Ladies and gentlemen… a new show with amazement and addictive lies is in town. Clowns with sad faces resembling your fears and broken dreams, fire swallowers of childhood tears and abuses on the cover of new shiney posters. On a TV set near you…right next to god. A whole empire of entertainment built around a 2tone [black or white only] tent. Selling fake-flavoured candy to the little kid inside us… Never heard so many lies as in this »real world«
Enter the dream…of something so worthless that it has to be hidden with layers of powder or so gross that has to be shown to everybody… as his power or the power of nature… freaks and animals… preists and politicians… common liars hidden behind curtains of fuzzy sheeps suppressed and surprised by their hunger for oblivience…
And as we move on… lie after lie we never look at the commercials breaks between shows… we just learn them by heart…
»Buy whatever's killing you. There's no point in killing yourself for free… than you could't CONSUME death… slowly…Just as she does you… hold on to your ticket till the exit… you might have wont the trip of your life… the only thing that nobody survives…«
LAUGH you heard of sheeps… I found jesus… he was behind the sofa all the time…
Welcome to our first show… called birth… pick a name for it… the same order of letters that's going to follow you for the rest of your life… Convert from zero to whatever religion your parent's choose for you… and than back from clerical to digital… follow it… I'd guess to the slaughter house. Where all the drems find their home… not hope…
1.) Freak show
I keep hidding in the freak show…
Even if i can't pretend…
My skin is made of holes hosting flys
And my body smells like naftalin.
My clothes are skeletons from closets
Hosting all the hate for what was known as fears…
I will never love again…
It hurts as I pretend to be the one
who has no fear.
Rotting flesh on bones of glass
A see through performance with no other side…
So my stage call's on.
Hosting it all, all the ones I hate…
And the audience is just a list of faces…
That made me what I am…
A freak…
Stage call nr.1:
»I love u I said…« a word that keeps on hunting me
As something I hate for the pain
Sounds of trumpets… boys with little drums
Skeletons of hate wrapped in cloath of dreams…
My scared body… covered with over grown meat [as scars]
Hidding my past behind masks…
I have no friends to shape my paste…
So I go on trips by heart…
Bumping into problems called routine…
A routine of same old problems that I know by heart.
My costume is what keeps me here
Makes me different… prevents my every escape.
And death is not the answer anymore…
It's so easy I can't do it… that same costume
Like a chain and ball…
If I could only juggle it through life,,,
Curtain…
Last trumpets with shreads of metal…
Making noises like past dreams about something
That once sounded like my life…
The only talent I ever had was destruction…
The same one that keeps on killing me…
Show after show…
Stage after stage…
No more posters no more pictures pls…
I'm tired… deaf to all the calls
The trumpet makes me sick…
Eating me from inside like a venom…
Eating out my show… like a puppet without strings…
Nothing left to move my arms…
No one's there to pull the string…
The seats are empty… the kids are dead…
Only tire tracks and pools of tears…
2.) Stage fright…
Same topic in different shows… different actors
I allways called it love couse it makes it easier…
Until I saw her eyes…
Sound like a well known chorus of the same old love song…
You're beautifull… but now it's real…
A pair of eyes matched only by the shrieking feeling of stage fright…
Dark as a black rose…
Dark as the things I love…
I'm not sure she heard me…
I move my lips to her steps…
Simple gestures that just make my day…
Every laugh is just like a song without lyrics
Every move is like a frame in a movie…
A silent move…
I freeze those and play them in my head…
Other people call them dreams…
I call them you…
Elegance is what makes you what you are…
When u pick your hair up, the world stops…
The pin holding them together is my still point
And I gravetate around u… like a lost satelite…
But they help [the pins]… they take away my fright…
I hold that little piece of your life in my hand
And the freight is gone…
I feel ready now…
To have another look their way…[those eyes]
Another dream… »beautiful as only u can be…«
Another act with shinny eyes…
And me drowning in them…
Drunk with the sent of your hair..
3.) Audience
Once when I was six my mother told me
»Not to stare at the television…«
But I did… at first it was dark…
Than light started to slowly crawl in…
Since then I see stars…
Little pieces of shiny objects
Glittering in my eyes…
My personal little dimonds…
At firs I thought it won't go away
Paranoid I was walking through the streets…
Filled with snowflakes falling
As on a dead tv set.
Since then I see stars everywhere…
Faces that I know…
Faces that tell me stories of lies
Written in scripts of dreams…
»I love u..« they scream…
In the agony of somebody elses skin…
Violently throwing themselves on the floar…
»It's television« they say…
The other reality…
The constant lie hidden behind a piece of glass…
No holes no rabbits just snow…
Alice left…
»Until one day the darkest pair of eyes
Stopped the script of every day routines…
The sparkle in them reminded me of stars…
Little moments of joyful childish memories…
Estetic of something so perfect…
A reality show of feelings
Stagefright instead of tears…
Addictive gestures of being the one…«
No more scripts…
No more posters…
Reality stops
Silent falling snowflakes on the screen…
4.) I heard they are going to ban smoking in the flea circus.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, when numbers count to nothing…
When was the last time I had a breath of fresh air? They don't show it in the movies.
Dean never told me that it'll hurt as hell when i'll try to run… run away from my own habbits.
Never told me how sharp the pain is as you watch the only person that u ever adored as he sticks a white piece of cloth in his throath… to clean the breathing hole… the black hole created by the same habbit that I follow. Ligned up as a soldier… No questions asked…
»Yes sir captain Nikotin. I'll serve u till the very bitter end.«
There was no dignity left in that for the exception of the scarf that he used to cover it. A scarf of lies and facts connected with numbers… Published in the books he knew by heart.
Smoking kills. Thanks for the news… I alwas thought it was going to help.
A performer… that's what I was…
The first approach: »hm hm.. do u have a light?« Her eyes shinning with life… or was it death? And than play after play the same rutine?
»Light(s)! inhale the ambient, exhail the words, applaus, curtain.«
That dark red curtain that the his casket was covered with. That feeling in my throuth again. As the need to start crying… Or is it the lucky strike that i'm waiting for? The very last one… last one in the pack… they say every end brings a new beginning…
New pack
Spit…
The feeling of his lungs collapsing pack after pack… as he tried to point at my future… somewhere in the disstance… covered with smoke… as once his face was… that thiny gentle line of smoke drawing the shape of his face. Lines that I considered as my home…
»Now leaning forewards to pick up something…«
he reminded me of the cigarette ashes… as they lean foreward… forgotten in the ashtry of this circus… The bottom covered with dead performers… One with the morning coffy, one because he hated his job, one because there was nothing else to do and one that I smoked… different from his…
»I was still learning my little routine…« »Working on my speech for his funeral«
I used to like the stage fright before every show… Now the performance of well studied movements became a soap opera of routines…
It's been two years now and I'm still waiting for his performance. Every spring, after the cold of winter, as the snow is mellting I hope to hear the happy sound of bells and laughter… But there's only silence. The same white silence that he left behind his final act… not an applaus… just black umbrelas standing in the rain of memmories of him that the sky was dropping on us… I still remember the sound of each and every one of them… Never sadnes… Couse he didn't want me to. Just an another excuse… for the next one.
Why don't i spit out the logos of the things that i was supposed to love more than anything else? My every day rutines… Performances… Why is there no loughter…Why is there only [honey on] tar .
Sweetest depressions and addictive lies in cartbord boxes. I finished the last one. Aplouse…
Courtain
5.) I heared there's no religion in the flea circus…
I
'll spread my love all over your face… and pain(T) it blue… green… yellow… as a rainbow of love… Changing day after day… it's not love if it does not hurt… He'll never breake your heart couse he made a commitment… and it has no bones to add that suttifying crunchy sound to yor prayers. Thank god that u live next to the church so u can visit it every time u fall from the stairs on your way there…
Than u'll have to pray… becouse it's not love if u are not affraid. Hidding under your bed, night after night, praying to him, that's listening from above, but is on hold at the moment… Ordering a happy meal to go… Where? Back at »the fruit of his own creation«? Becouse it's not love if u can't feel it. He died on a cross for you… We speak and believe money… we understand digits… and converting from clerical to digital…
I heared that all the fear was invain. Becouse it's not fear if there is no death. You have to know what hell looks like to know how beautifull heaven is. Or was before they painted all the Coca cola logos on their wall. Merry christmas. Santa is born… Have a Coke…
6.) I heard there are no polititians in the flea circus
» we claim this land as ours! Make it ________again«
Sweat dripping down a pair of fat red cheeks
Cheeks that you have fed with votes and money
Claiming something yours… to be found
Before you even knew you lost it.
»may god be my witness«.
Victims of lies from their own creation
On pages… but not just pages… Front
Doors of your houses… Screaming…
» with golden smiles to match the eight a clock news«
Smiling faces of the tortured
As they turn to torturers…
Reasons hidden behind another _______–ism...
Point a finger and they'll cut it…
They will cut it with pens as sharp as swords
Wrap it in their realty with pictures straight from »wars«
Hipocratic kisses of peace
And wishes of »get wells«
Comercial brake:
» help rebuild the things that we destroyed… Cover our bomb holes with hopes of a bright future. You are free now. In a land u once called home. Go now to your ruins and tents… in the land u once called home.«
Lying on a beach of sand I watch the news…
I watch a boy as he pick up shells
Empty ones…
Mouthfull of revolutions
Heart broken by the beauty…
Of the moment… by the gentle
Words of the wind…
I follow the line of clouds…
Jet exhaust… caphony…
Then silence…………………………………………………………….
Over 7 mountain and 7 lakes
Bodies tripping over empty bomb shells
Not man… parts and pieces of dignity
Once straight… saluting to his faith.
The next performance piece [of arms and legs]
For another television network's freak show.
»Our NEW jingle aannnnnnnnnnnndddddddd cut to commercials«
“And the day »the flea circus« left there were just tractor tire marks… resembling footprints… just like the paint on posters that's fading away… creating puddles of tears… gathering…
just like the smilling poster-clown with a tear of rain running down his torn face… broken… with goofy mustaches that the children have drown… resembling fear… or just resembling a new beggining…
the long winter of the await for the next show… with new lies.«
»The flea circus«
[for her that brought tears of hope and love]
It's Sunday morning, I'm not going to church today. I'm saving my money for my flea circus ticket.
And there was the begining.
»Ladies and gentlemen… a new show with amazement and addictive lies is in town. Clowns with sad faces resembling your fears and broken dreams, fire swallowers of childhood tears and abuses on the cover of new shiney posters. On a TV set near you…right next to god. A whole empire of entertainment built around a 2tone [black or white only] tent. Selling fake-flavoured candy to the little kid inside us… Never heard so many lies as in this »real world«
Enter the dream…of something so worthless that it has to be hidden with layers of powder or so gross that has to be shown to everybody… as his power or the power of nature… freaks and animals… preists and politicians… common liars hidden behind curtains of fuzzy sheeps suppressed and surprised by their hunger for oblivience…
And as we move on… lie after lie we never look at the commercials breaks between shows… we just learn them by heart…
»Buy whatever's killing you. There's no point in killing yourself for free… than you could't CONSUME death… slowly…Just as she does you… hold on to your ticket till the exit… you might have wont the trip of your life… the only thing that nobody survives…«
LAUGH you heard of sheeps… I found jesus… he was behind the sofa all the time…
Welcome to our first show… called birth… pick a name for it… the same order of letters that's going to follow you for the rest of your life… Convert from zero to whatever religion your parent's choose for you… and than back from clerical to digital… follow it… I'd guess to the slaughter house. Where all the drems find their home… not hope…
1.) Freak show
I keep hidding in the freak show…
Even if i can't pretend…
My skin is made of holes hosting flys
And my body smells like naftalin.
My clothes are skeletons from closets
Hosting all the hate for what was known as fears…
I will never love again…
It hurts as I pretend to be the one
who has no fear.
Rotting flesh on bones of glass
A see through performance with no other side…
So my stage call's on.
Hosting it all, all the ones I hate…
And the audience is just a list of faces…
That made me what I am…
A freak…
Stage call nr.1:
»I love u I said…« a word that keeps on hunting me
As something I hate for the pain
Sounds of trumpets… boys with little drums
Skeletons of hate wrapped in cloath of dreams…
My scared body… covered with over grown meat [as scars]
Hidding my past behind masks…
I have no friends to shape my paste…
So I go on trips by heart…
Bumping into problems called routine…
A routine of same old problems that I know by heart.
My costume is what keeps me here
Makes me different… prevents my every escape.
And death is not the answer anymore…
It's so easy I can't do it… that same costume
Like a chain and ball…
If I could only juggle it through life,,,
Curtain…
Last trumpets with shreads of metal…
Making noises like past dreams about something
That once sounded like my life…
The only talent I ever had was destruction…
The same one that keeps on killing me…
Show after show…
Stage after stage…
No more posters no more pictures pls…
I'm tired… deaf to all the calls
The trumpet makes me sick…
Eating me from inside like a venom…
Eating out my show… like a puppet without strings…
Nothing left to move my arms…
No one's there to pull the string…
The seats are empty… the kids are dead…
Only tire tracks and pools of tears…
2.) Stage fright…
Same topic in different shows… different actors
I allways called it love couse it makes it easier…
Until I saw her eyes…
Sound like a well known chorus of the same old love song…
You're beautifull… but now it's real…
A pair of eyes matched only by the shrieking feeling of stage fright…
Dark as a black rose…
Dark as the things I love…
I'm not sure she heard me…
I move my lips to her steps…
Simple gestures that just make my day…
Every laugh is just like a song without lyrics
Every move is like a frame in a movie…
A silent move…
I freeze those and play them in my head…
Other people call them dreams…
I call them you…
Elegance is what makes you what you are…
When u pick your hair up, the world stops…
The pin holding them together is my still point
And I gravetate around u… like a lost satelite…
But they help [the pins]… they take away my fright…
I hold that little piece of your life in my hand
And the freight is gone…
I feel ready now…
To have another look their way…[those eyes]
Another dream… »beautiful as only u can be…«
Another act with shinny eyes…
And me drowning in them…
Drunk with the sent of your hair..
3.) Audience
Once when I was six my mother told me
»Not to stare at the television…«
But I did… at first it was dark…
Than light started to slowly crawl in…
Since then I see stars…
Little pieces of shiny objects
Glittering in my eyes…
My personal little dimonds…
At firs I thought it won't go away
Paranoid I was walking through the streets…
Filled with snowflakes falling
As on a dead tv set.
Since then I see stars everywhere…
Faces that I know…
Faces that tell me stories of lies
Written in scripts of dreams…
»I love u..« they scream…
In the agony of somebody elses skin…
Violently throwing themselves on the floar…
»It's television« they say…
The other reality…
The constant lie hidden behind a piece of glass…
No holes no rabbits just snow…
Alice left…
»Until one day the darkest pair of eyes
Stopped the script of every day routines…
The sparkle in them reminded me of stars…
Little moments of joyful childish memories…
Estetic of something so perfect…
A reality show of feelings
Stagefright instead of tears…
Addictive gestures of being the one…«
No more scripts…
No more posters…
Reality stops
Silent falling snowflakes on the screen…
4.) I heard they are going to ban smoking in the flea circus.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, when numbers count to nothing…
When was the last time I had a breath of fresh air? They don't show it in the movies.
Dean never told me that it'll hurt as hell when i'll try to run… run away from my own habbits.
Never told me how sharp the pain is as you watch the only person that u ever adored as he sticks a white piece of cloth in his throath… to clean the breathing hole… the black hole created by the same habbit that I follow. Ligned up as a soldier… No questions asked…
»Yes sir captain Nikotin. I'll serve u till the very bitter end.«
There was no dignity left in that for the exception of the scarf that he used to cover it. A scarf of lies and facts connected with numbers… Published in the books he knew by heart.
Smoking kills. Thanks for the news… I alwas thought it was going to help.
A performer… that's what I was…
The first approach: »hm hm.. do u have a light?« Her eyes shinning with life… or was it death? And than play after play the same rutine?
»Light(s)! inhale the ambient, exhail the words, applaus, curtain.«
That dark red curtain that the his casket was covered with. That feeling in my throuth again. As the need to start crying… Or is it the lucky strike that i'm waiting for? The very last one… last one in the pack… they say every end brings a new beginning…
New pack
Spit…
The feeling of his lungs collapsing pack after pack… as he tried to point at my future… somewhere in the disstance… covered with smoke… as once his face was… that thiny gentle line of smoke drawing the shape of his face. Lines that I considered as my home…
»Now leaning forewards to pick up something…«
he reminded me of the cigarette ashes… as they lean foreward… forgotten in the ashtry of this circus… The bottom covered with dead performers… One with the morning coffy, one because he hated his job, one because there was nothing else to do and one that I smoked… different from his…
»I was still learning my little routine…« »Working on my speech for his funeral«
I used to like the stage fright before every show… Now the performance of well studied movements became a soap opera of routines…
It's been two years now and I'm still waiting for his performance. Every spring, after the cold of winter, as the snow is mellting I hope to hear the happy sound of bells and laughter… But there's only silence. The same white silence that he left behind his final act… not an applaus… just black umbrelas standing in the rain of memmories of him that the sky was dropping on us… I still remember the sound of each and every one of them… Never sadnes… Couse he didn't want me to. Just an another excuse… for the next one.
Why don't i spit out the logos of the things that i was supposed to love more than anything else? My every day rutines… Performances… Why is there no loughter…Why is there only [honey on] tar .
Sweetest depressions and addictive lies in cartbord boxes. I finished the last one. Aplouse…
Courtain
5.) I heared there's no religion in the flea circus…
I
'll spread my love all over your face… and pain(T) it blue… green… yellow… as a rainbow of love… Changing day after day… it's not love if it does not hurt… He'll never breake your heart couse he made a commitment… and it has no bones to add that suttifying crunchy sound to yor prayers. Thank god that u live next to the church so u can visit it every time u fall from the stairs on your way there…
Than u'll have to pray… becouse it's not love if u are not affraid. Hidding under your bed, night after night, praying to him, that's listening from above, but is on hold at the moment… Ordering a happy meal to go… Where? Back at »the fruit of his own creation«? Becouse it's not love if u can't feel it. He died on a cross for you… We speak and believe money… we understand digits… and converting from clerical to digital…
I heared that all the fear was invain. Becouse it's not fear if there is no death. You have to know what hell looks like to know how beautifull heaven is. Or was before they painted all the Coca cola logos on their wall. Merry christmas. Santa is born… Have a Coke…
6.) I heard there are no polititians in the flea circus
» we claim this land as ours! Make it ________again«
Sweat dripping down a pair of fat red cheeks
Cheeks that you have fed with votes and money
Claiming something yours… to be found
Before you even knew you lost it.
»may god be my witness«.
Victims of lies from their own creation
On pages… but not just pages… Front
Doors of your houses… Screaming…
» with golden smiles to match the eight a clock news«
Smiling faces of the tortured
As they turn to torturers…
Reasons hidden behind another _______–ism...
Point a finger and they'll cut it…
They will cut it with pens as sharp as swords
Wrap it in their realty with pictures straight from »wars«
Hipocratic kisses of peace
And wishes of »get wells«
Comercial brake:
» help rebuild the things that we destroyed… Cover our bomb holes with hopes of a bright future. You are free now. In a land u once called home. Go now to your ruins and tents… in the land u once called home.«
Lying on a beach of sand I watch the news…
I watch a boy as he pick up shells
Empty ones…
Mouthfull of revolutions
Heart broken by the beauty…
Of the moment… by the gentle
Words of the wind…
I follow the line of clouds…
Jet exhaust… caphony…
Then silence…………………………………………………………….
Over 7 mountain and 7 lakes
Bodies tripping over empty bomb shells
Not man… parts and pieces of dignity
Once straight… saluting to his faith.
The next performance piece [of arms and legs]
For another television network's freak show.
»Our NEW jingle aannnnnnnnnnnndddddddd cut to commercials«
“And the day »the flea circus« left there were just tractor tire marks… resembling footprints… just like the paint on posters that's fading away… creating puddles of tears… gathering…
just like the smilling poster-clown with a tear of rain running down his torn face… broken… with goofy mustaches that the children have drown… resembling fear… or just resembling a new beggining…
the long winter of the await for the next show… with new lies.«
nedelja, 5. julij 2009
mornings in here...
Feeling like an eye lash in a tornado on the face of beauty
Not a thought…
Not a melody of a well known song
Just a silent movie of moving lips
Sung by you…
An insane mechanism of the 40's esthetic…
Beautiful and blinded by the 10 moments of my day that are lit by the beauty
Sliping in the worm lap of your face…
Something so deep and blue like your eyes…
Bringing me back…
Making me feel like a child…
Chasing clouds with a finger tip…
And naming them… after you…
Thank u to even let me see where the world stored all of its beauty…
It's an amazement every time…
How the ocean starts to be something ordinary…
Compared to the blue and deep look that comes out from your eyes…
At the same time screams of the wind…
Playing with your hair just like seagull wings…
Gentle but loud…
And the calmest of the sounds ever known to man…
Made by your steps as u walk by…
Like little drums announcing that
There is beauty…
Hope or something amazing out there…
That it is worth living to see…
What color is your laughter going to be tomorrow…
I know that it's going to make my day…
Even if it stays just a stupid line from someone…
I want u to know…
That u are beautiful….
no more big words...
no strange thoughts...
just a feeling of blindnes...
coused by the sun of your being...
as i drown in those eyes...
those beautifull eyes
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